


A Worthy Buyer

by ArgylePirateWD



Series: Self-Indulgent Forever/POI Crossover Series [1]
Category: Forever (TV 2014), Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Flirting, Fluff, M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-12
Updated: 2020-12-12
Packaged: 2021-03-10 18:01:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,786
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28021332
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArgylePirateWD/pseuds/ArgylePirateWD
Summary: "Harold here seems like a man who actually knows how to handle an antique," Henry says."'Handle an antique?' Is that what they're calling it these days?"
Relationships: Abe Morgan & Henry Morgan, Harold Finch/Henry Morgan
Series: Self-Indulgent Forever/POI Crossover Series [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2052081
Comments: 4
Kudos: 25





	A Worthy Buyer

**Author's Note:**

> Because my favorite adorable aging computer nerd who likes nice suits needs to be swept off his feet by my favorite handsome tech-hating immortal medical examiner who also likes nice suits.
> 
> Prequel to [this fragile, frightening thing](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20302504). Since The Subway is watching Forever right now, I thought I'd dust this little thing off and post it.

It starts over, of all things, suits and desks.

He's shopping for one of his safe houses, trying to decide between two antique desks, when an Englishman's voice filters through his reverie. "Pardon my intrusion, but I must say, that is quite the lovely suit you have on."

Harold glances up, and finds himself facing an unfairly handsome man from across the desk. The man has artfully sculpted stubble, dark brown curls, warm brown eyes and an even warmer smile, and is wearing a magnificent suit of his own. Charcoal gray, nearly as fine in quality as Harold's own and just as immaculately tailored, with a gray and black scarf in lieu of a tie. His pocket watch is a bit old-fashioned, but it suits him well. There's very little that _wouldn't_ suit the man, Harold suspects. Goodness, he's gorgeous.

And it is immensely flattering to be the subject of such a man's positive attention, even if it is only toward his suit. Face warming slightly, Harold smiles. Suddenly, he's grateful this morning's pain level had him reaching for something nice for a bit of cheer: dark gray with light pinstripes and a matching waistcoat, a pale lavender shirt, and a vibrant paisley tie and pocket square in multiple shades of rich purple, pink, and silver. He looks good. That he'd gladly remove his own spine with a dull plastic spoon today doesn't show at all. "Oh, thank you," he says. "Yours is quite lovely as well, Mr.—"

"Doctor," the man corrects, his tone friendly. "Dr. Morgan. But _you_ may call me Henry."

"Pleasure to meet you, Henry," Harold says, offering his hand for a handshake. "I'm Harold."

"It's always wonderful to meet a gentleman who appreciates fine tailoring, Harold." Henry's hand is warm, his grip firm, his skin very soft. He holds on longer than is proper as they start talking, but, then, so does Harold. "Your suit is exquisite."

When they finally let go, Henry's fingertips brush Harold's palm, and Harold suppresses a shiver.

 _He's too young for you,_ Harold scolds himself, as Henry examines Harold's suit and waxes poetic about favorite stitches and fabrics with so much zeal even Harold can barely keep up. Henry must be, what, at least twenty years Harold's junior? But there's something about the eyes that keep looking into his own that makes Henry seem older, somehow. There's a lot you can learn by looking into a person's eyes, Harold's found, and there's a wisdom in Henry's eyes, a profound understanding of the world, that age does not automatically grant.

Harold knows that from personal experience. He didn't see it in his own until...after.

Henry looks away first, turning his attention to the desk. He runs one of his hands over its pristine surface, then frowns and shakes his head slightly. "No, I don't believe this one suits you. Follow me."

He leads Harold over to the other desk he'd been contemplating, the one he'd been leaning slightly toward choosing himself. Henry's gaze catches on Harold's limp, assessing, possibly diagnosing, and Harold's stomach and chest twist unpleasantly, his face falls, his aching spine stiffens. He braces himself for a comment.

A comment that doesn't come. There's the briefest flash of sympathy in Henry's eyes after a moment, like he's even figured Harold's pain level out, but no words. Henry is likely too proper to say anything. That doesn't mean, however, that Henry's perception of him hasn't abruptly shifted to the negative. It happens with depressing regularity when people notice his disability. And while it's not the reason he so rarely socializes with anyone other than John, it certainly does not encourage more human interaction.

After a while, Henry says, "You're the sort of gentleman who appreciates finery in more than just your sartorial choices, aren't you, Harold?" his kind smile returning, but Harold is still on edge.

"Indeed I am."

"Then I feel confident that this is the desk for you."

When they reach the desk, Henry's expression turns wistful. He trails a hand over it like he did the other, except this time the touch is fonder, long and reverent. It's a beautiful desk, the wood a rich and gleaming reddish brown, the construction sturdy. Its surface isn't as immaculate as the other's, with a few scuffs and scratches that seem more like history and character than flaws. As Henry touches it, Harold feels like he's intruding upon a deeply private moment, something poignant and revealing. This desk holds a lot of memories.

And Henry led Harold to it. Only a fool wouldn't recognize the significance of that.

"I'd take good care of it," Harold says, voice soft. He'd put it in his home, he thinks, replace one of the ones he keeps there, put that in the safe house instead.

"I know." Henry smiles again. "You know something, Harold? I'm usually quite good at reading people. I can tell who they are, how they live, what they do for a living with just a look or two. But I can't quite read you." He tilts his head, giving Harold an appraising glance. "You're very smart, an intellectual who takes pleasure in knowledge and learning—that part's obvious. You have a dog."

Harold gives him a startled look, and Henry smiles. "You missed a tiny patch of dog hair on your side, just here." Before Harold can look, Henry's brushed it away, the faint touch making him shiver even through layers of fabric. Oh, dear. Henry presses on. "You have money. You appreciate art. But the rest—I cannot even pinpoint something as simple as your career. I'd guess you were a librarian or a professor, though, if you weren't dressed so finely. What _do_ you do for a living?"

That is a question with a complicated answer. Harold knows he should reply with the job of one of his covers, Wren's insurance, maybe, or Crane's or Partridge's investments. For a fleeting, foolish moment, he's tempted to tell Henry about the numbers. "I'm good with computers," he says instead.

"Really?" another voice pipes in—an elderly man, the eponymous Abe, Harold guesses. "Think you could teach this old dog a few tricks? And by 'old dog,' I mean Henry."

Henry heaves one of the deepest sighs Harold's ever heard. "We've been over this, Abe."

"Not enough, apparently," Abe says. "You know, he won't even carry a cell phone?"

"Really?" Harold says, aghast. Oh, that won't do at all. He should fix that...except it's none of his business. He's just met Henry.

"Uh-huh. Not even a basic one that just calls and texts people. And I keep signing him up for computer classes, you know, the ones for old folks? And he keeps blowing them off. Something about murders to solve and all that stuff." Abe shields his mouth with a hand and leans in, conspiratorial and teasing. "Between you and me, I think he's just making excuses, but—"

"For the sake of our guest," Henry says, raising his voice for a moment, "I will refrain from giving you yet another lecture on precisely why I have no use for all of those wretched technological devices." Ah. An old argument, then. To Harold, he says, "Pardon me for disparaging your profession. I mean no offense."

Harold chuckles. "No offense taken. I suspect your feelings in regard to computers are quite similar to mine in regard to anything involving the medical field." He thinks back to Oliver Veldt's squishy heart, to tending John's wounds before Shaw came along, and his stomach turns.

"That depends," Abe says. "Do you feel like doctors are spying on your every move and—what was it—destroying the fine art of conversation like microwaves destroy food? Or whatever the hell he says all the time. I started tuning him out a long time ago."

The Machine immediately comes to mind, naturally, at the mention of spying. Harold pushes thoughts of it aside as he tries to formulate a response.

Luckily, Abe saves him from having to come up with one. Abe glances toward the desk, then does a double-take. "Holy crap. You mean you're actually suggesting that someone buy this one?"

"Harold here seems like a man who actually knows how to handle an antique," Henry says.

"'Handle an antique?' Is that what they're calling it these days?" Abe says, with blatant innuendo, and Henry glares. Abe ignores it, turning his attention back to Harold. "Seven people have tried to buy this desk, and he threw a hissy fit every damn time. That credenza over there?"

Abe points over Harold's shoulder, and Henry's scowl deepens. Unexpectedly, Harold finds himself biting back a laugh. "Ten potential buyers, none of them 'worthy.'"

"They all wanted to—"

Abe steamrolls over Henry. "And let's not even talk about how he is about selling all of the old medical paraphernalia he's hoarded over the years. I'm surprised I still have a business with this guy around."

"Perhaps his old-fashioned demeanor lends an air of veracity to your business?" Harold suggests. Henry lights up—goodness, he has a lovely smile—while Abe groans.

"Oh, god, no wonder you want him to handle your antiques," Abe says. "He talks like you. Hell, maybe he _is_ like you."

That clearly has a deeper meaning, Harold thinks.

"Well, whether he is or not," Henry says, pointedly, "I am quite intrigued." With an unmistakably flirtatious edge to his smile that leaves Harold's silly old heart fluttering, Henry says, "How would you like to have dinner with me this evening, Harold?"

He should say no. Henry is younger than him. The numbers never stop coming, not to mention the ramifications for building his Machine. Inserting himself into people's lives immediately invites danger as well. But he would like to get to know Henry, and it is insanely flattering to be wanted by such a handsome man.

"Just to be clear," Abe says, astonished, "you're asking him on a date, right?"

"Not every friendly interaction is related to romance," Henry says, giving Abe an irritated look. Harold's stomach sinks with disappointment, until Henry turns an even brighter smile on him. "But, in this case, yes." Henry reaches out and takes Harold's hand in his, his skin warm and good against Harold's. "I _am_ asking Harold here on a date."

He should say no. The small word hangs on the tip of his tongue, ready and waiting. But, oh, goodness, he can't say it. Surely one little date won't hurt? Just one?

"So, will you, Harold?" Henry says, and, oh, he loves how Henry says his name. "Will you please join me for a date tonight?"

Returning Henry's smile, Harold says, "I would be delighted."


End file.
